


Do Lok arhk Yol

by raunchyandpaunchy



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Civil War, Cults, Fantastic Racism, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, One Shot, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 01:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16924311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raunchyandpaunchy/pseuds/raunchyandpaunchy
Summary: The First and Last Dragonborn emerge victorious from Apocrypha, and wax politic on Skyrim's summit.





	Do Lok arhk Yol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ulysses_Quanta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulysses_Quanta/gifts).



> This was a Pledge fic I wrote for Uly, where he asked me to write Miraak and the DB surviving the final battle, returning to Tamriel and swapping stories of times been and gone with Paarthurnax. A massive thanks to Syllis for beta reading.

The First and Last Dragonborn faced each other, bloodied and burnt, each evidently holding on by the barest thread. Miraak’s ethereal armour shimmered about his frame; a transparent shield etching the shape of tentacle-adorned robes. Drelyn could see it wavering. But not enough. His own armour - the flames of his ancestors - began to flicker, their intensity waning. He looked into the faceless mask before him - behind it, a man as stubborn and weary as he.

“By Azura, are we going to be at this pissing contest all day? I’m bored. Really profoundly fucking bored.”

Miraak chuckled; a thin noise behind the mask. “Not bored enough to give up.”

“ _Wukim gena’id,_ ” Drelyn grumbled. Miraak’s next sword strike was half-hearted; Drelyn’s parry was equally lackluster. His blade deflected Miraak’s counter-attack just enough. Even the sound of their blades clashing was muted now as they tired, barely cutting over the eerie paper-rustling sounds of Apocrypha.

“Really? Are we here to be Hermaeus Mora’s entertainment?”

Miraak tried again. Drelyn, finding a new reserve of strength, beat against his blade, cut over - and the deadly length of razor-sharp ebony now pressed against Miraak's neck, grazing the space between mask and robes. Miraak froze in place.

They looked at each other.

Drelyn's arm was getting tired.

"I could burn your flesh from your body," warned Miraak. He made no move to do so.

"You could," acknowledged Drelyn, just as exhausted. "Or - we could call this a draw and go someplace with fewer tentacles." He tried to grin. "Maybe go find some mead, or some sujamma. Unless you'd rather keep on with this just to die for the entertainment of your Prince."

Drelyn felt the energy of the Daedric realm shift - but didn't have time to be alarmed, before he heard... Was that Hermaeus Mora chuckling at his proposal?

"We could join forces," he offered. "It'd make for a better story."

 

 

* * *

 

"Good old Herma-Mora," Drelyn chuckled, shielding his face from the biting wind. "There's a Daedra who appreciates a good plot twist." 

“Why in Oblivion are we climbing all the way up here?” Miraak asked, his mask hiding what was undoubtedly a scowl.

Drelyn shrugged. “Where were you hoping to go? A skooma den? An Argonian whorehouse? Because I can take you to both those places, but I thought you might like to meet Alduin’s brother first.” He flashed a toothy grin at Miraak. “You know, since I slew Alduin before you did.”

“You got lucky. Beating me to the punch doesn’t make you the better Dragonborn.” 

They trudged through the snow; Miraak’s boots tamping the frost underfoot into uniform shapes, Drelyn’s flame cloak in lieu of an actual one melting a path in his wake. Much grumbling later, they reached the summit; Paarthurnax resting on the curved stone in the distance.

“Should have travelled here by dragon,” Miraak griped, shaking the snowflakes from his cloak.

“Ah yes, that would have been an excellent idea. Bet Paarthurnax would have loved seeing you essentially enslave his brethren.” Drelyn rootled around in his rucksack, retrieving a brown corked bottle. “Here. Drink this, and stop being such a miserable bastard.”

Drelyn tossed the ale to Miraak, who examined the bottle but made no move to drink it.

“What, more of an wine man? Might even have some sujamma in here if you’d rather.”

Miraak said nothing as he lifted the bottom of his mask, revealing a thick, grey beard. He loosed the cork from the bottle from his teeth and took a long swig, draining half of its contents in one swallow.

“Been a while since I’ve tasted ale,” Miraak admitted. “Better than I remember.”

Drelyn nodded, drinking his own. “Gets the job done.”

They approached the curved stone and the dragon sitting atop. He assessed them with rheumy eyes; a glint of Stalhrim blue dancing underneath.

“ _Hi Daal, Dovahkiin._ ”

“It’s been a while.” Miraak paced further towards Paarthurnax, every step in the cold, snowy ground crunching like frail bones in a dragon’s maw. “I hear your brother has been slain.”

“ _Geh, Dovahkiin_.” Paarthurnax’s eyes shimmered with regret. His head sank against the stone. “A necessary evil. _Ahzid krongrah._ ”

“Blades seemed to think killing you was a necessary evil, too,” Drelyn commented, drinking the last swig of his ale and throwing the empty bottle off the summit. “Didn’t care for them much. Something to drink?” He held a bottle to the dragon, who shook his head solemnly.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, uncorking the vessel and quaffing its contents.

“So, how have things been here in Tamriel?” Miraak asked, his ragged beard pulled upwards by the smirk underneath. “Has the whole realm gone to ruin under your brother, the World-Eater?”

“Nah, the Nords have pretty much taken care of that themselves,” remarked Drelyn. “There’s a whole Civil War going on right now.  One side is banning Talos worship. The other is banging on about how Skyrim belongs to the Nords.” He scoffed. “The usual stuff. They were just thrilled when the Dragonborn turned out to be a filthy knife-ear.”

Miraak’s jaw hardened. “Seem to recall the Dunmer enslaving Argonians.”

“We enslaved them, they enslaved us, and now we’re both languishing in the slums of Windhelm,” Drelyn shot back, acerbic. “Still, it’s always fun being a political pawn. Ulfric Stormcloak just about pissed his smallclothes when he heard I was Dragonborn. A token Dunmer by his side? What better way to show he’s not truly a racist.”

“Well, did you do it?” Drelyn could hear the accusatory tone in Miraak’s voice.

“Course I did. Meant I could rob the fool blind.”

Miraak gave a staccato laugh. “The more things change, the more they stay the same. Being a cult leader is infinitely less complicated than being any sort of political figure.”

“Ah, yes. ‘ _And when the world shall listen, and when the world shall see_ ,’ all that stuff,” Drelyn said, amused. “Not a great deal of difference between cults and politics. All just platitudes for sycophants.”

“ _Suleyk drunne nax_.” Paarthurnax let out a huff, his breath rising in thick clouds of mist above him. “Maybe in centuries’ time your kind will learn. _Mindoraan drem._ ”

Drelyn frowned. “What’s Dovah for ‘not fucking likely’?”

“So why do you do it, Dragonborn?”

“Why do we do anything? Money, victory, our ancestors, _love_ -” Drelyn’s voice dripped with derision at the last item. “- Or because we’ve fuck all better to do and that’s where life led us.”

Miraak snorted. “That can’t be it.”

“You’d be surprised. Grew up in Solstheim, got the first boat over to Windhelm when I was still a pup.” He grappled with the cork lodged deep in the sujamma he’d retrieved. “Worked in various Cornerclubs and Taverns, lived in squalor, joined the Guild at its height. Robbed every racist Nord in the city of their valuables as I drowned my sorrows in skooma and cheap wine.” He shrugged. “Got caught on a job at Darkwater Crossing. Got brought to Helgen, and suddenly I was Dragonborn.”

“And that put an end to the thievery and skooma?”

“Wouldn’t say that, but it definitely made things a lot more interesting.” Drelyn licked his lips. “And you?”

“I was born into a world enslaved by dragons. I knew I didn’t belong among the ranks of those who served, though. I wanted more. And then I found the Black Book.”

“I thought _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ was a better read, personally,” Drelyn quipped. Even under the mask, he could sense Miraak’s face remained unchanged.

“Hermaeus Mora granted me immeasurable power. Finally, I could conquer the world. But, like anything else, it came at a price.”

“I’m assuming being contained to Apocrypha was that price,” said Drelyn.

Miraak nodded. “Daedric princes are also not eager to agree to renegotiate terms.”

Drelyn looked at the First Dragonborn. “You _were_ bored.” He grinned. “Shit, maybe I should’ve taken you to the whorehouse first.”

Paarthurnax sighed. “ _Sa_ _hrot meyye_.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Wukim gena’id" is Dunmeris for "stubborn creature".
> 
> The title translates to "Of Sky and Fire" in Dovah. The rest of the Dovah phrases are as follows:
> 
> "Hi daal" - "you return"  
> "Ahzid krongrah" - "bitter victory"  
> "Suleyk drunne nax" - "power brings cruelty"  
> "Mindoraan drem" - "understand peace"  
> "Sahrot meyye" - "mighty fools"


End file.
